


Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?

by gerardarthurgay (nmlucy35)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, M/M, Manipulation, Peterick, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nmlucy35/pseuds/gerardarthurgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders briefly if his mouth tasted more like weed or Pete, then he decides he wouldn't be able to make a credible decision because he's never tasted Pete any other time than after a joint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?

**Author's Note:**

> It's three A.M. and this is my first attempt at actually publishing fanfiction, so play along.

They rock together, slow and steady, like tidal waves crashing into each other. 

There's a creak of the couch each time they move, back and forth, that would be annoying any other time. Patrick can deal with this. The heavy-lidded gaze Pete's giving him says he can deal with it too.

They don't even have their clothes off and Patrick is pretty sure he's going to have some major chaffing on his thighs but Pete's grunting because oh, god, they're coming in their pants together like a couple of teenagers. Patrick has a flashback to high school when he used to do this at the few parties he went to, where he had drank himself into oblivion and grinding himself onto a stranger's thigh wasn't as bad as it sounded.

Pete whispers his name really greedy, like he owns it, and he's done just like that. Patrick feels it dripping down his thigh and seeping through his jeans, but he's so out of it he doesn't even care. They lay like that for a while, Pete resting his head on Patrick's chest, listening to his heartbeat, until the mess on both of them becomes too much and Pete pushes himself up, muttering a “thanks” that sounds more like an “I'm sorry.”  
He always sounds sorry. Patrick doesn't know why. He isn't sorry.

The joint is almost down to ashes but Patrick takes what's left between his fingers and drags as slowly as he can without coughing. He wonders briefly if his mouth tasted more like weed or Pete, then he decides he wouldn't be able to make a credible decision because he's never taste Pete any other time than after a joint. They mean the same thing in his head nowadays. Weed equals Pete, Pete equals weed. The end of the joint is shining a dangerous orange too close to his fingers for comfort now so he sets it back down in the ashtray and watches it fizzle out on its own. Patrick has a feeling the other guys will be there to haul him back to the van soon, so he swings his feet down over the couch cushions and gets to work changing his pants. There's a tiny wet spot on the couch where he and Pete had leaked through, but it's probably seen worse, so he leaves it. Patrick weaves his way down through the backstage, which is thankfully sort of empty. The van is parked right outside of the door so he climbs in, and wonders if maybe he should say something to Pete, like, “Hey, thanks for letting me get off on your thigh these past couple of weeks, it's been swell.” but Pete's already asleep in his bunk, with one arm crossed over his chest like he was half-dead.  
Patrick wants to be half-dead for the night too, and slumps down in his own bunk.

*

Arizona is choking him. Arizona is dust and red clay and it's gathering in his throat and it's choking him, and he keeps coughing and sniffling like he has a cold but he doesn't. Patrick is anything but cold. So he lays around under the ceiling fan and definitely does not think about Pete. Only Patrick does think about Pete, a lot. He wants Pete, as in, not red-eyed and moving slower than normal and totally out of his head. The fan whirls menacingly around over his head as he bites at the peeling skin on his lower lip until he tastes blood.

After the show, Pete is crowing about the doob he scored from some over enthusiastic fan, and within a few minutes he's cleared everyone out of the back room except for Patrick. They never keep pipes around, too breakable, so it's another joint this time and Pete is sinking down against the wall and inhaling like it's going to be his last breath, exhaling and sighing at the same time with a dense white cloud of smoke. He smiles with content.

“Trick?” he says.

“Yeah.” Patrick says, keeping his voice level.

“Triiicckkk.”

“Yes, Pete.”

Pete motions to him with his chin, waggling the weed around his fingers, from pinky finger back up to his pointer like he'd been practicing specifically for the occasion. He slides down next to him.

Pete's grin wrinkles his eyes when he looks at Patrick. He chances a glance down at Pete's mouth, all spit-slick from going over the rolling paper, mentally cursing himself and his weakness.

“This is some good stuff.” Pete mutters, laughing quietly to himself about what seems like an inside joke. “You want some?”

Patrick can feel his heartbeat kick up a notch and suddenly his skin is too tight, suffocating him from the outside in. He really didn't want to do this again, get his hopes worked up again, but the way Pete was looking up at him through his lashes, that alone was enough to make him go weak at the knees. He licks his lips, feeling the divot in his lower one from earlier. If he worried it enough, it would probably bleed again. He tries to ignore it.  
“Would you mind sharing?” Patrick says.

“Not at all” Pete responds, and without breaking eye contact, takes a magnificent lungful of the joint. He leans in close to Patrick until their noses are touching, prodding his lips apart, and after a split second Pete seals his mouth down air-tight and breathes so all the smoke is forced down Patrick's throat, inhaling Pete's exhale. Patrick clenches his fingers hard on his legs so he doesn't cough or get all teary eyed as he feels it fill his lungs, holding on for as long as he can before he lets it all out into the air. Pete blinks slowly as it dissipates, before doing it again, and again, and again, until there's no joint left, and they're just sharing breath and tongue. Patrick is gasping and Pete just sucks him in, he isn't breathing oxygen, he's breathing Patrick. His back hits the carpet as Pete gets a knee in between the two of his legs and then he's rutting down into the place where his thigh meets his hip, grinding down all slow and dirty like the carpet beneath them. Pete's arms are shaking with the effort of keeping himself supported so Patrick just pulls him down by the neck until they're flush against each other. Pete's tongue is smooth in his mouth, languid, and it's better than all the “I love you”'s he's ever gotten from everyone else combined, because this is Pete. This is Pete.

Patrick has a brief moment where his head clears and he remembers this is the exact opposite of where he was wanting to go. He's about to say something when the fog reclaims all of his coherent thought but his mouth is still opening anyways.

“Take your pants off.” he says flatly.

Pete opens his eyes and stares down. “What?”

Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat and begins fumbling ineffectually with the top button of Pete's jeans, fingers too thick and slow to get anywhere.  
“Just take 'em off.” he whispers, then accepting his defeat and sliding his hand down under the waistband, through the dense patch of hair, and grabbing a handful of Pete's cock. Pete shudders and bucks involuntarily up into his fist, then shimmies his hips away and takes Patrick's hand out. He somewhat pins it down above Patrick's head and stares down with a look of something not quite comprehending.

“Too many...clothings.” Patrick says, biting his lower lip. There's an inaudible pop and he tastes something metallic. “Not inim..inam...intima...not close enough.”  
Pete lowers his eyebrows, and then sighs. He leans and kisses the bow of Patrick's upper lip.

“Not tonight.” he says, and then, nonono, he's getting up.

Patrick's stomach clenches and he feels like he's about to cry. It's totally dumb and it's just the weed but there are very real tears pinpricking his vision and threatening to spill if he doesn't control himself, so he lets Pete go, watches him feel his way down the wall until he's out of the room, and then he decides to just stare at the ceiling until everything quits swirling.

He's asleep long before then.

*

When Joe comes for him, he's probably not a pretty sight with his slack jaw and sex hair laying on his back on the floor. In all actuality, he probably looked dead, so that's why Joe was shaking him so hard to wake him up. Patrick grunts and squints even though the light has been turned off.

“I need your help.” he says drowsily.

“You need professional help.” Joe says, “Which I cannot give you. I can make some calls though.”

“Shuddup, douchebag, this is serious.” Patrick rubs at his eyes as a sort of emotional buffer, to put his feelings into words, to get his feelings straight in the first place, to somehow communicate to Joe how he

“I am in love with Pete.”

Joe blinks slowly with no specific expression on his face, before wiping the sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt and helping Patrick up.

“I am in love with Pete.” Patrick says again.

“Uh, yeah, I heard you the first time.” Joe says.

“No, not like. Well yes, exactly like that, but, Joe. I am in love with Pete.”

“Yes, okay, I believe you, just stop saying that.” he says, shaking out his overgrown hair. “Christ.”

Patrick gives him a look and stays silent, not moving, expectant. Joe turns and sees and then sighs and goes, “Sorry, I'm sorry, you just kind of sprung that on me. Um, I'm sorry? Congratulations? I don't know what kind of vibe you're giving me here.”

“Sometimes we make out when we're high.” Patrick says.

“That's good I guess. That's an, um, oh. Is that why you're always kicking me out?” he looks to the ceiling like asking god for strength and then he rubs his face with both hands and his expression is completely hidden. Patrick is about to poke him, when he starts shaking presumably with silent laughter.

“Here I was thinking you boys were trying to be good guys and making sure Mr. Straight Edge wasn't lonely.”

Patrick kind of smiles. “Yeah, that's too nice for our style. Might wreck the bad boy image.”

“You're in love with a guy who wears eyeliner. What image?”

Hearing Joe use the word “love” does something in Patrick's head. Makes it official. Before all of his thoughts were random swirls of Pete and want and various clips of his body, a solid weight on top of Patrick or a grounding force below him, clinging to him like he was a lifeline, pupils blown and his lips all swollen and beautiful. He was so in love with Pete, it was ridiculous.

“So, Pete must dig you if you're making out.” Joe says. “I thought he always did dig you, but you kinda swung your own ways these past couple.”

Patrick cringes. “This is post-Big Gay Freakout. I'm not even gay. Just tired. And confused.” He rotates the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. “Pete's not himself when he's high. I mean, he's Pete, but not petepete, you know?”

Joe does not know. He continues staring and then starts nodding like he knows he should be.

“Look, I just, I want to make out with Pete when we're not high.” he says finally.

“Well, it's not hard. Just like, grab him and. Kiss him.” Joe says.

“No, I can't.”

“Yes you can.”

“Well, I physically could, I guess. Thanks Joe.” Patrick starts pacing the length of the room to stretch his aching muscles. He can feel all of them burn with each step and curses Pete Wentz with every last shred of dignity he has.

“But, weed is the social cue, y'know. It's an excuse. I think he feels guilty, with all his little girly friends.”

“You should probably feel guilty, with your 'little girly friend.'”

Patrick cringes. “That's been over for a while.”

Joe doesn't say anything and waits for him to continue. He's a smart man.

“So, I dunno. I can't, like, make a move until he's lighting one up. Maybe he isn't even into me, and he just likes getting off on my leg.”

“Ah yes, Patrick, whisper more to me these sweet nothings about your love life.”

“Dick.” Patrick says, but he's smiling. “Any ideas you have bouncing around?”

 

“Tamp it down with oregano like a high school dealer? Why not.” He laughs loudly at his own joke.

Patrick is about to laugh too when he realizes that's a good fucking idea.

“I didn't mean it.” Joe says suddenly. “Don't dilute the stash, I use that shit sometimes, c'mon Patrick.”

“Take one for the team, if you know what I mean.”

“Very funny. You're a stand up comedian, you are.” Joe says sourly.

Patrick walks out, with a new spring in his step.

*

The next week, Pete is shuffling offstage, when Patrick grabs his hand and pulls him out back to the van. He has already searched out the building and there was no private back room, so Patrick sent a silent prayer out to Andy and stepped into the vehicle after Pete. By the time the door is shut and locked, Pete is staring at him with one eyebrow raised, and it feels like the baggy in Patrick's pocket is going to burn a hole into his leg so he pulls it out and swings it tauntingly in front of Pete's face. He lights up when he registers what Patrick is holding.

“Dude, no way!” he says, grabbing the bag out of his hand and racing back to his bunk to grab rolling paper.

“Good stuff, too. Strong.” Patrick struggles not to laugh. “It's Italian.”

“Patrick, you are my jesus. Have I told you how much I love you, lately? Because I do. I looooove  
you.” he drawls, licking the seam of the paper in a way that makes Patrick want to do obscene things.

The lighter flickers. Pete sucks long hard on the unlit end and splutters it back out again, waving his hand in front of his face and coughing. “Oh, fuck. You sure this is legit?”

“I told you, man, it's strong!” Patrick says, taking the joint in his hand and shooing Pete away with the other. He jams it between his lips but doesn't inhale, just hollows his cheeks for the effect. Then he hands it back, turns around so Pete can't see the tiny puff of smoke he lets out.

“Good stuff.” he repeats.

Pete nods with determination. He keeps nodding to himself that way, little encouragement, like pep talks to himself, after every puff. Patrick keeps hollowing his cheeks and taking fake breaths. Twenty minutes in, Patrick figures it's now or never.  
“This is the best high I've had in months.” he sighs.

Pete coughs and rubs at the back of his neck, which Patrick tries really hard not to find endearing. “Uh yeah, yeah. It's great.”

They sit in silence for a little bit, before the tapping of Pete's foot against the door and the dripdripdrip of the leaking tap and their mismatched breathing and all the other inconsistent little rhythms around them make something snap inside of Patrick, so he actually just places his hand on the middle of Pete's chest and presses until he's flat on the floor. Patrick can feel him shudder under his palm and that's the last confidence boost he needs before he's not bothering with the zipper but sliding Pete's pants and boxers down over his hips and his knees and finally off, jesus christ, he's waited forever. Patrick looks down at Pete, who looks up at him, and he can't tell what emotion he's feeling. So he wraps his hand around the base and twists a little and Pete's back gets straight and he gets really quiet. Patrick is almost scared he doesn't like it until he makes a really quiet noise in the back of his throat and raises his hips ever so slightly, pushing up into his fist, and squints his eyes closed. Patrick dives down and swallows as much as he can, no, too much, because he gags and then he has to come up for a second to cough in his elbow. Pete opens one eye, and actually grins.

“Too much for you, Trick?”

“How about you shut up or I'll leave you like this.”

and then someone tries the handle on the door. When they find that it's locked, they start knocking.

“I swear to god you guys if you're doing anything in there, I'm going to come back with bleach and a blowtorch.”

Pete scrambles to pull up his pants as Patrick hurries to stand up. He reaches a hand out for Pete, too. Through his really skinny jeans it's absolutely obvious how hard he is, and Pete is looking around and trying to cover it with the hem of his shirt, and it's not working, so he finally jump-slides into his bunk and curls up under the blanket.

Patrick slides the lock open, and Andy comes in.

“Oh thank the lord.” he says, spying Pete, and then he breathes in through his nose.

“Straight edge on the premises!” he yells, pulling his shirt up over his nose, “I can't believe you guys, come on! You couldn't do it somewhere else?”

“Weed is natural.” Patrick coos.

“I'm going to break my natural foot kicking your natural ass.” Andy says, and then jogs back onto the sidewalk.  
“That was way too close.” Pete giggles.

 

“That was ridiculous.” Patrick says, and then they're both laughing, together.

After a few minutes, Pete was no longer hard, they were alone, there was a theoretical cricket chirping quietly.

Patrick got up and left without saying anything.

*

The tour is ending with a bang. Pete is making sure of it.

When Patrick walks in, the place is blazing with light. Strobes bounce off the walls and illuminate the cloud of smoke gathering against the ceiling, dirty grey, like a rain cloud. There's a station up front with someone in expensive headphones and the stereo is pumping out something, he can't tell, but the bass is so loud it's hard to breathe.

Joe comes up and claps him on the back. “We made it.” he yells.

He nods in response, smiling with actual enthusiasm. This was exactly what he needed.

Patrick slides by the bar, feeling around for his wallet, but the bartender points at him and slides over a drink on the house. Patrick raises it to him before downing it in one go.

He dances a little, hesitant, but he'd never been one for these things.

Pete, however, was. And that's when Patrick sees him.

He's up against some girl, ass grinding down against him like it's for profit. Pete is grinning stupidly, rubbing his hands down her back.  
He meets Patrick's eyes and nods, fucking nods, polite. Despite his current situation. Patrick's eyes go all blurry and he sees red, and when the world comes back into focus, Pete is right in front of him. Through his anger he can feel his skin breaking where his fingernails are digging into palms and it's infuriating. Patrick has a mad urge to scrub at them but he resists. Instead he grabs the back of Pete's dumb fucking hoodie and starts dragging him across the room, the girl scoffing and while not trailing off, glares after them and crosses her arms.

Pete gets his bearings and steadies himself, yanking Patrick's hand off, searching over his face for an explanation. Problem was, Patrick didn't have one.

“Who the fuck was that?” Patrick yells.

“My girlfriend.” Pete deadpans.

Patrick's stomach droops into his knees. He wants to throw up and cry and also punch Pete in the face. But at that moment, Pete is staring at him like he's crazy which. Hey. He probably is.

“Oh.” Patrick says.

“Wait, wait. Are you high?” Pete scoffs incredulously and drops Patrick's hand, spinning on his heels. Patrick reaches out again, starting to say something, anything, “Pete wait Pete” but he keeps walking, so he grabs his hand one last time and when Pete looks back with his eyes on fire he gasps, “I love you.”

Pete opens his mouth a little, then closes it again, and shakes his head. “Very funny, Trick.”

Patrick can't even believe what he's hearing. Does he think this is a joke? This is the very last place Patrick wishes he were and now there's blood rushing up his neck and he can feel his face flush, so maybe if he closes his eyes and opens them he'll wake up. Because this has to be a really, really bad dream.  
Patrick scrunches his eyes closed as tightly as he can and then opens them.

The party is still there.

Only Pete has disappeared.


End file.
